Another Year

Well it seems that the way I keep up with the passage of a new year is that once again Sandy refused to allow my presence at her place of employment's annual Christmas Party. It's not exactly like I've been excruciatingly bad; maybe 6 on a scale of 10, but that is fairly good for me. She let me accompany her to the Soap Babe's open house and I did pretty well until they told me that the Babe rented a Billy Goat to keep with the nanny goats, and maybe I did draw a little analogy to my own place in society, but hell it wasn't all that bad. We're all adults. A friend happened to mention that "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission" and I suddenly had one of my infrequent revelations. That has been my mantra, since it seems someone is always begging me to ask for forgiveness. I think the old girls had a brunch today as well, and I think they deliberately time the occasion at 11:30 AM in the hopes that I won't happen to pop in. I've known these three friends of Sandy's for over 30 yeares and I'm still struggling for some common ground. There are probably inmates on death row that I could communicate with easier than these three former English teachers. I guess I made too much fun of them years ago when they were constantly pregnant, and wanted to talk about their babies. Regardless of that, I wander from my story of utter desolation. What other man has been banned from Holiday gatherings? I bet even Ernie Fletcher has probably gone to a couple of social soirees. I thought about some of this yesterday on my way home from Hyden, Kentucky. It seems that I can only get along with myself and sometimes even that is a struggle. I was leaving home the other morning and realized that as always I did not have any money in my possession. I did the honorable thing and shouted up the steps to Sandy, asking if she had any bills. She waltzed over the landing and nonchalently dropped a handful of tens and twenties into thin air. Being the realist that I am, I missed every bill and spent five minutes grovelling on my knees as I searched form them amongst furniture and flower arrangements. I think I know how the the French peasantry felt with Marie Antoinette gave her cake speech. Don't get me wrong--I stached those bills in my shirt, thinking how good that Large Coke was going to taste in less than five minutes. Speaking of Drive-up service, I always go and order my morning coke, and the little woman always asks me if I want two apple pies for a dollar and I always answer no. I'm afraid to go nasty with this woman because she holds the key to happiness in her hand. Someone once told me that while working in a restaurant the workers would put Murine in the drinks of rude people and this caused immediate diarrhea. Lord knows I've got enought trouble in my life without that. We were in New York a couple of weeks ago and Sandy and I were walking toward Sachs, and there was an expensive black leather boot lying on the sidewalk in the rain. Now I thought some young lady has partied too much and went home without her boot. Well on our way back we were on the opposite side of the street and came across the other boot about a block away. Now that would have been my kind of girl about 35 years ago. Not now though-have you ever priced ladies shoes in New York? One thing is certain: it wasn't one of those old previously mentioned English teachers hurling her black sexy boots in Mid Town. Did I just say that????? I'll be crying about ostracism this time next year. Olive brightened my day with Christmas gifts as she sent 6 or 7 tubes of castoff hand lotion that must have been molding under her bath vanity for the past two or three years. She didn't have the decency to clean the nasty tubes up. I asked her about this and she said my hands needed lotion since they're always chapped. I guess I'll go on construction sites smelling like Bath and Body Works Vanilla. Won't that create a memory?

Angels' Wings

This past weekend the crew did our annual trip to the Big Apple ,and the sights of the holiday decorations of the city that truly goes out of its way to bring in the season. Christmas in NYC spans every religion and denomination known to civilization, whether it be believers or not. Coming from a village in Central Kentucky does little to prepare one for the rich heritage and diverse customs so apparent in our largest city. It's as if a banquet of exotic food is placed before your eyes , and you don't know where to start. I always try to go into St. Patrick's Cathedral as I walk up 50th street from our hotel, and this time we went in and sat briefly in the dimly lit,vast cathedral. It seems as if God is somewhere near, or if not ,at least he's been recently. I look up towards the high vaulted ceiling and see faint shadows from the hundreds of burning candles below, thinking maybe that I might hear the soft rustlings of angels' wings as they flitter amongst the towering stone columns, much like moths above flames. Are angels drawn to the prayers and candles ? Do I really hear murmurs and angelic rustlings up near the dark, arched ceilings? Did I really see a shadow flit swiftly across the ornate stained glass rosette facing Rockefeller Center? Or perhaps the spectre was of some spirit from New York's past, seeking comfort with living bodies down in the polished pews below. I read somewhere that rough deckhands on a tramp steamer had found an angel with an injured wing in a crate of bananas bound North from below the equator, but then after seeing Michael on the vcr I think maybe the story wasn't true. I just know that the Catholicism thing is as alien to a Southern Baptist boy as Judaism or even the Muslim Religion. As I grew up in a small community it was difficult to see how picturesque and idyllic the place really was. I guess in hindsight that the ribbon that bound us all together was the Baptist Church , which like all surrounding communities, was not very tolerant of thinking very far out of the box. Every sermon ended with invitations to join and become a member of the fold. Imagery always centered around shepherds and flocks of sheep. The music was slow ,somber, and very traditional. If at times I didn't enjoy my childhood it was because I was mortally afraid that I or my family would die and go to hell. The Ministers most often spoke only in passing about a God of Love, and dwelled upon a Vengeful God who would surely send us to Everlasting damnation and torment. Neil Diamond sang of Brother Love's Travelling Salvation Show, and I was always there. I could see the Devil lurking outside the doors, waiting to snatch us away to hell. I didn't know whether the scenerio was like Hansel and Gretel in the forest with the wicked Witch, or some slick talking guy in Robin Hood attire as he played upon his flute like a modern Pied Piper of Hamlin, magic sounds coming from the flute, and occasionally seeing the glimpse of horns under his silken hood. Whatever the scenerio, we were always doomed to hellfire and brimstone as the katydids sang on those stiffling August Nights. I've often wondered how Neil Diamond, being the Jewish lad from Brooklyn,could have told of the fear and agony of poor little Protestants from Lincoln County Kentucky in 1965. How could I have been so traumatized as a youth as I walked home from church, not hearing the whipporwills or insects as they sang amongst the black velvet , sweaty night? I would only occasionally glance over my shoulder to see if Satan truly was glowing evilly, and ready to snatch me away. Sweet Jesus!! Keep him away. I was so young and my world was so centered around me that I didn't realize that Satan had a pretty big schedule , and that I was fairly low on his priorities. There was more than enough suffering around the world than in my own little realm. Maybe he should have gone after Lee Harvey Oswald, or Lyndon Johnson, or Richard Nixon, or Nikita Kruschev, or Fidel Castro, or Idi Ahmin. Just anyone but me. Back to today, I hope those angels are truly up in the far ceilings of Saint Patricks ,and thanks Neil Diamond.